put a smile on Marissa’s face. Jamie Wilson. Her best friend, guy version. If there was anyone who could untwist her insides and aim her in the right direction, it was Jamie. She speed-dialed him.
He answered on the first ring. “Where are you, babe?”
“Back on U.S. soil. Making my way to the taxi lane.” Jamie was the only man she let call her “babe.” From a snake like Paul, the pet name would ooze with condescension. From Jamie, it was about cozy familiarity, as if they were an old married couple who finished each other’s thoughts. Which they almost were. Jamie was the straight Will to her Grace, proof that men and women truly could be “just” friends.
“Did you practice your yoga breathing on the plane like I said?” Jamie was always telling her she needed to slow her usual pace—full speed ahead.
“With a carpet salesman from Jersey and his horking wife at my elbow? Not a chance. But after the attendant had removed the airsick bags, I did wind down with one of those itty-bitty bottles of rum.”
“You’ll be dehydrated then.”
“I know. Want to meet me for drinks? Maybe a little cheese with my whine?”
“How about actual food?”
“I guess.” Her stomach was hollow, but she was too hyper to eat. Normally she’d channel her energy into a good workout—either at the gym or in the bedroom— but that was out for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d get back on the treadmill, literally and figuratively. If she never found an appropriate man, at least she’d qualify for the fitness Olympics.
“I need to stop by home first to dump my luggage,” she said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the suitcase. “Meet you there.” Jamie lived upstairs from her, in a vintage brownstone in the Village.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
She glanced up. “Almost to the exit. If the taxi line isn’t too long, I’ll be in the city by—”
“Turn left,” Jamie said.
“But—”
“Just do it.”
Because it was Jamie, she obeyed, making such an abrupt detour she almost tripped over the trolley of Louis Vuitton cases a chauffeur was wielding like a feed store wheelbarrow.
Jamie appeared out of the moving crowd, cell phone at his ear.
“You dork,” she said, blinking back the moisture that sprang to her eyes. “I told you not to go to the trouble of meeting me.”
“Hey, a vacation breakup deserves an airport pick up. It’s synergy.” He dropped the phone into the pocket of his baggy khakis and put his arms around her. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find a car to borrow. We’ll have to get a taxi.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder, just for a moment or two. Three, four, five. Her heart surged with gratitude. He felt as warm and comforting as ever, but also muscled and solid. When had that happened?
He’d been a skinny dude with an unintentionally hip geekiness when they’d met three years ago while playing Ultimate Frisbee with a group of friends in the park. In between putting in eighty hours a week at work, she’d been dating one of her typical Mr. Right Turn To Disasters. Jamie had been seeing her ex-roomie, self-proclaimed bitch diva goddess Shandi Lee—an odd couple if ever there was one. The relationships had lasted just long enough for Marissa and Jamie to avoid the awkward “should they or shouldn’t they?” moment and settle into platonic friendship.
Lucky timing, Marissa had always thought. Jamie Wilson had become the only long-term chromosome XY in her day-to-day life, the only male, aside from her cat, Harry, that she wasn’t pressured to impress.
“Marissa,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”
She squeezed him, allowing his sympathy even though too much sentiment usually made her itchy and restless. Outside of the holidays, when she was a sap about family cheer and goodwill to men, she kept her game face on. A single woman in Manhattan had to be tough.
And yet once again she felt herself relaxing into Jamie’s patented comfort zone, the one place where she let down her guard. He felt strong. He smelled good. Not like Paul, granted, who’d given off the alpha wolf eat-or-be-eaten pheromones that typically revved her engine. But surprisingly good, all the same.
Surprisingly sexy for a best friend.
What? Her head cranked back.
Beep, beep, beep. Time to back up that truck before it drove over the cliff looming ahead.
“Enough of this. I’m not dying.” Marissa pulled out of Jamie’s arms. “It’s just another breakup. I’ve survived them before.” She tucked away the cell phone that was still clutched in her hand, watching his face through her lashes while she snapped the bag shut.
Jamie seemed unaware of her instant of sexual awareness. He looked the way he always did—strong nose and jaw, blunt cheekbones, big dark blue eyes with sleepy lids beneath the mop of nut-brown hair that fell across his brow. A mouth so mobile that she’d learned to read his emotions from the shapes it made.
At the moment he was holding a faintly quizzical smile, his expression as clear and innocent as a choir boy’s. No sign of any of the messy, secret yearnings she’d occasionally worried he might harbor for her, that Shandi, among others, had sworn were there.
Who knew that Marissa, the tough chiquita from the barrio, would crack first?
She shrugged. Well, whatever had happened was only a momentary weakness. Gone like a speeding bullet, she told herself, although an alarming amount of warmth toward Jamie still simmered inside her.
Ignore it. No more mistakes, remember?
“You okay?” he asked, taking her rare uncertainty for Paul Beckwith aftereffects.
“Sure.” She tossed her ponytail. “You know me. Paul’s roadkill in my rearview mirror.”
“But this time, you’ll have to keep seeing him.” Jamie had warned her not to have a workplace affair. He was always so sensible, telling her in his evenhanded way exactly what was wrong with the man she’d chosen. That he was invariably right but never said “I told you so” was one of his most endearing characteristics.
Which didn’t mean she’d ever learn to listen to him! But it was nice having someone looking out for her.
“Not to worry,” she said. “We’re both too busy for office drama.”
“If you say so.” He scowled as he took her bag.
“Now, Jamie. I only need one stern papi and I left him behind in Little Havana.” Jamie’s brotherly concern was nowhere near as stifling as the concern of Alberto Suarez, an old-fashioned Cuban American who thought that his eldest daughter should be married and popping out babies like a good little Catholic. Two years shy of thirty and she was already considered an old maid by her family. “So don’t look at me like that.”
Jamie blinked. “Like what?”
“Like
